


on an airship (crossing the milkyway)

by doublelead



Category: Free!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Fairy Tale Elements, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 10:22:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8485672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doublelead/pseuds/doublelead
Summary: “Me?” Kisumi looks away, head tilted, a finger on his chin in thought. He laughs again, quieter, a mirror of the near-empty platform and the whispered murmurs through the window. “I’m getting off just a bit down the track. Maybe I’ll try a little bird-catching.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jiemme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jiemme/gifts).



> HELLO AND HAPPY MAKOTO DAY!! I'm sorry you're stuck with me for your gift but I hope you like this! You asked for KisuMako coffee shop AU but that somehow devolved into... whatever this is lmao. I'm really sorry awawawa ;_; I tried my best??? BUT YEAH I REALLY HOPE IT'S WORTH YOUR TIME AT LEAST??? YOUR HAPPINESS IS WHAT I WISH THE MOST FOR THIS FINE MAKODAY

“That’s really something!” Kisumi laughs, setting down his cup ― white and small, pastel petunias delicate along the handle. A train passes through the tracks, muffled vibrations under their feet. The overhead lamp sways, warm light bouncing left and right, across the tea’s rippled surface. “That’s exactly where that train was heading, you know?” 

Makoto’s fingers are loose around his own cup, a grey-speckled blue he gave Haruka for his birthday. He keeps in the shop now, as Makoto’s personal teacup. Slowing to a stop, a reflection of light stark against a lone floating tea life. Makoto doesn’t see his lips move, his words taking shape.

“Me?” Kisumi looks away, head tilted, a finger on his chin in thought. He laughs again, quieter, a mirror of the near-empty platform and the whispered murmurs through the window. “I’m getting off just a bit down the track. Maybe I’ll try a little bird-catching.”

He sees Haruka’s hand slide a plate down in front of them, plaster covered fingertips disappearing out of his periphery before he could catch them. 

Robin’s egg blue icing, a dove-shaped shortbread.

Makoto shuffles his feet, the sole of his shoes pattering against the hardwood floor. The edge of the chair digs into the heel of his palms as he moves to sit on his hands.

\---------

“I’m still not sure which story to use for the play,” Hayato sighs, resting his cheek on top of the small paperback book he brought with him: _‘The Milkyway Railroad’_ by Kenji Miyazawa, the 2013 Shincho Bunko print. Nuzzling the cover, he lifelessly stirs his mug of hot chocolate. “I’m really sorry to drag you into this, Tachibana-san.”

Makoto giggles into a curled hand, seeing how much like _Kisumi_ Hayato has grown up to be. Pink hair cascading across the illustrated chocolate-covered confection of the book cover like an extra layer of sweetness, the lower half his face buried into a tightly wound chequered scarf over his gakuran ― Hayato looks like he came straight out of his middle school memories. 

“It’s okay,” he says, waving his hand. “I offered, so.”

Hayato, exerting great willpower, lifts his head just the slightest bit, only to slide the book towards Makoto before re-assuming his previous state of squished cheek. This time, against the table top. “I marked the possible titles on the index, but none of us could agree on which,” he mumbles, wisps of breath over stray strands of hair. “They could _all_ agree on letting me decide though ― out of all things. It's because I'm in charge of the script, apparently.”

 _‘Otsbell and his Elephant’, ‘A Pair of Stars’, ‘The Nighthawk Star,’ and ‘The Milkyway Railroad’._

Makoto remembers vaguely, standing in the midst of misaligned desks, colourful backpacks haphazard on the floor, the rows in-between. The words on the blackboard played a little game of hide and seek ― white letters peaking from behind the top rim of his book as he shakes. His voice wavered, between words, syllables cut short by a baited breath. His hand shook, thumb white from pressing too hard down the doggy-eared page. 

“ _‘If we can run like this, we can run anywhere in the whole wide world!’_ ” he had said, a pitch too high. “ _That's what Giovanni thought as they passed the river bed ― the light on the ticket gate grew gradually larger and larger―_ ”

Hori-sensei had stopped him then, calls for Kisumi instead, to read the next passage. Makoto sat down with a relieved sigh. He looks up, catches the tail second of Kisumi giving him a thumbs up before his voice fills the classroom.

“ _―They were back in their old seats looking out the window at the very place they had been not a moment ago._ ”

A bird’s shadow flits by their table and up the counter. Haruka idly taps a button on the register, offers a little nod when their eyes meet. 

“I’d go with either Nighthawk Star or Milkyway Railroad,” Makoto says. “Depending on how long you’d want it be, Nighthawk might be simpler to adapt.”

“That’s what I thought, too.” Hayato’s voice sounds more and more muffled, his face completely flat on the table now. “But Kakitsubata-kun wanted to do something grand, and Wada-kun is better at props than he is costumes, so it might be easier on us to do Milkyway Railroad.”

Makoto gives Aki a wry smile, as she comes over with a small basket of chequerboard cookies, ruffling an unresponsive Hayato’s hair. “You guys are working hard.”

“We’re trying to,” Makoto says, over Hayato’s prolonged sigh. “Thanks for the cookies, Zaki-chan. Haru won’t kick us out, right?”

“He has a soft spot for Hayato-kun,” Aki laughs, nodding her head to where Haruka is pretending to be engrossed in coating pastries with an egg wash. “Probably glad because he turned to be more like you than Shigino-kun.”

“Don’t bully. Hayato-kun’s dejected enough already.” He hasn’t moved for a whole two minutes, readily accepting the gentle stutters against his forehead from the passing train outside. “He’d be heartbroken hearing you talk about his brother like that.” 

“He should find a better older brother to look up to, honestly.” Haruka supplies helpfully. He’s still not looking up from the oven, like it hasn’t already been set and pre-heated to the perfect temperature.

“You don’t mean that, Haru-chan.”

His shrug speaks louder than any reply would ― non-committal, flaky at best. Haruka visibly externalises his disdain for Kisumi more for show than actual scorn for the guy. It’s weird thing he’s been stubbornly keeping up for years.

The welcoming bell chime gets drowned out, by the door suddenly bursting open. Kisumi stumbles through the door, panting, clutching his rucksack tight to his chest. He holds up a finger before looking up, lips parted to choke out an excuse―

“Two minutes late, Shigino,” Haruka says, closing the oven door. 

“You saw the ticket gates not cooperating with me!” Kisumi says between harsh intakes of breath. “I saw your shoulders shake with laughter through the glass!”

“I think Nanase-kun was just brushing the croissants,” Aki says, walking back behind the counter to re-arrange the baked pastries on display. “Aren’t you a little overly self-conscious there, Shigino-kun?”

Makoto doesn’t know how Kisumi’s hair could look like it’s emoting with his owner, but he’s pretty sure he saw it deflate, falling limp down the side of his face.

“Ah, Hayato!” He perks up, waving both of his hands to greet his little brother. Forgetting his rucksack for a moment, he startles when it hits the floor between his feet.

“Oniichan!” The cookies in the basket jumps from Hayato’s sudden movement. He visibly brightens, in the way he starts packing his bag, wrapping the cookies with the lined handkerchief for him to take home. “Tachibana-san and Yazaki-san’s helping me with my school play! Nanase-san’s letting us camp here, too.”

“Oh, is that so?” Kisumi says, dropping his bag behind the counter over the register, skilfully deflecting a disapproving frown from Haruka. “How’s it going? Aren't you out a little late though? Mum's probably already waiting for you.”

“Ah.” Hayato says, flat. He thumbs open his phone, freezes in the first few seconds his home screen lights up ― _19:23._ “R-Right. I’ll save you a plate, Oniichan. I think mum’s making gratin!” After drinking the last of his hot chocolate, he stands up, bowing deep towards Makoto. “Thanks for today, Tachibana-san! I’ll LINE you again if it isn’t too much trouble!” he says, before dashing off. 

“Don’t worry about it. Whenever you need me, Hayato-kun!” Makoto calls out to the closing door.

\---------

Kisumi leans on the top of the display cooler, finger toying around the rim of a bread basket. Makoto wavers between getting the opera cake or the sachertorte – _maybe he should just get a pan au chocolat?_ His hand ghosts over the glass, tugs back a thoughtful hum every once in a while.

“I’ll have–”

“ _Mmm,_ maybe–”

He bops around in indecisiveness, thankful there’s no line before him because everything Haruka makes is otherworldly but he really shouldn’t order _five pastries_ for himself.

“The sach–”

“Say,” Kisumi says, off-hand, like he’s not addressing Makoto ― at least not directly. “My family moved to Tokyo last month.”

“Oh?” He feels kind of apricot-ey lately, so the sacher _should_ be a good choice, _but―_ “Hayato-kun’s going to middle school here, then? Is he okay?” His eyes looks back at him as a reflection behind the canelé. 

“Yeah. An all-boys school in Meguro.” The oven dings once, short, and Kisumi shuffles to grab oven mitts. “He’s doing well. Getting along with a lot of them already.”

The sweet scent of freshly baked bread wafts across the café, leads Makoto’s half-way firm decision on the sachertorte astray by the pan au lait left to cool on the rack. _Why is this shop like this._

“I’m glad,” Makoto says. “I hope I get to see him soon!” He does mean that, really. Ecstatic, even. Hayato plays a big part on why he’s here in Tokyo in the first place ― it’s just that being engrossed in choosing which dessert to eat is undermining his tone a little. 

“About that! I told him that you work with children’s literature, right?”

“Yeah?” _Okay, but what if he just drops the whole pastry idea and go with a chocolate parfait instead._

“He asked me if you’d be willing to help him with his cultural festival project.”

“Huhh…” He thinks Kisumi is reaching out from over the display case and is starting to pull at his hair. “I don’t know how much I can help, but my schedule has been a bit free lately.”

“Neat!” Kisumi is twirling Makoto’s hair around his fingers now. “He’d be so happy to hear that! I’ll tell him your LINE later so he can contact you.”

He replies with a distracted, but otherwise confirming hum.

“By the way,” Kisumi says, his voice taking a playful drawl. “I should’ve told you this from the beginning but...”

Okay, Makoto thinks he can choose confidently now, _definitely._ “The ope–” 

“Haru says that you’d definitely want the sacher.”

 _Ah―_ “Then, I’ll have one of that, please.” 

\----------

It’s quiet, save for Hayato diligently plotting his draft in his notebook. _Sasabune_ is a platform-side station café, but Haruka would rather eat Makoto’s cooking than start a shop somewhere crowded. So here they are, tucked in the corner in a residential area, counting shadows passing through the patch of sunshine on the wall. 

Aki walks over to chat every once in a while, bringing refills and the occasional cookies. Canary yellow icing, today – a cute little button quail breaking out of its egg. 

“He’s been getting creative with the shapes,” Aki says. “An external source of inspiration, I think.”

Makoto hums in reply, thoughtful. He looks down to the table – his gaze a staccato between Aki’s apron, his grey-speckled teacup, then on Hayato’s pencil case. Home-made stickers litters the surface, hand-drawn doodles of colourful little birds. It looks like something out of a children’s book, a story flowing from the top right corner ― the fastener acts as the milkyway, a steam train crossing a river of stars as migratory birds cascade behind them.

“Cute isn’t it?” Hayato says. Makoto looks up to see him smile, showered under the afternoon light “Kisumi-oniichan made it for me!”

He vaguely remembers Kisumi as a doodler back then, too ― cranes and herons, sky fish and the scorpion’s light ― little scratches of graphite in the margins of his school books. Makoto picks up the cookie and laughs, cheeks aching around a smile, a dusting of red. 

\----------

“Further than anybody,” Makoto thinks he says. He can’t quite hear himself ― blood pulsing in his ears. His own voice muffled, too far for him to catch.  
He doesn’t know why he’s still being stubborn. He’s come so far already. ‘ _Just a little bit more,’_ he thinks. _‘Just enough so that I don't get left behind.’_

He doesn’t know why he thinks he hasn’t left the platform, both feet rooted beyond the yellow line, when he could see the galaxy under his feet. 

\------------

The light on the ticket gate grows smaller, smaller, as he goes further, further.

\------------

“Makoto,” Haruka’s says suddenly, over stirring a pot of curry

“Yeah?” He calls over his shoulder. 

“Do you know what the Red Queen’s Hypothesis is?” 

“Huh?” Caught off guard, he knocks over an empty cup – melamine, red. 

“It’s exactly what you’re doing.”

Makoto says nothing, tries to understand Haruka’s Cryptic Advice. The cup isn’t exactly empty, a drop’s worth of tea makes its way onto the table. 

“Try running a bit harder.” Haruka walks over to set down two plates of curry between them. “Why try so hard to stay in one place? You can go further.”

 _‘I’m trying to,’_ Makoto doesn’t say. _‘I can’t catch him, when he’s flying with a kite of herons.’_

\-------------

_'Has your father come home yet?'_

_'No.'_

_'I wonder what could have happened? Just two days ago I received a wonderful letter from him. He should be home by about today. The boat must have been delayed, that's all. You'll come to our home tomorrow after school with everyone else, won't you, Giovanni?'_

Makoto’s eyes passes through the last line, lingers on the final word. He lets it sink ― the deep-rooted heartache he always feels the moment he reaches the end with Giovanni. A ghost of a ripple around his ankles, the lake's water sluicing around his skin. Grass and gravel under his heels, the starry sky overhead. An old friend's father's voice unreadable, stronger than it should be.

The slow realisation that the world has moved out of its constant, after a long journey.

“Yeah,” he nods, content. “This looks perfect.” 

“Really?” Hayato’s relief shows in how he starts bouncing in his seat, the top of shoes pleated over his tiptoes pressing against the floor. "I can't wait to show this to Wada-kun! I’m sure he’ll make props that’ll really bring this alive!”

"I look forward to seeing the whole thing!”

“We’ll get you a special seat, since you helped out and all!” Hayato takes a happy bite off a his apple cinnamon tart. He deserves this and maybe Haruka’s assorted shortbread basket, after all that hard work. 

“I didn’t do much.” He mostly just looked it over, really. Hayato has quite the talent with words.

“You took time out of your day for this,” Hayato says. “That’s definitely more than _‘not much’._ ”

“It really is nothing,” Makoto laughs. “But I’ll take you up on that, then. Good luck with the rest of the preparation, then, Hayato-kun!”

“Thanks! I’m so excited now, _gosh_.” A bird soars over the railroad, slows to perch on the roof above the platform. Two short flaps of its wings casts a shadow over their teacups. “I’m going to give tickets to Yazaki-san and Nanase-san, too!”

“I’m sure they’ll be happy.” Haruka would definitely appreciate the craftsmanship behind the stage setting. 

“And of course Oniichan!”

Makoto sneaks a peak behind the counter, towards Kisumi who has fallen asleep by the register. His shadow stretches up the wall behind, his breathing rhythmic.

“ _Oh._ Of course.”

The bird from before flies down to the windowsill outside, its shadow falling on top of the nest that is Kisumi’s hair.

\--------------

“I'm not scared of all that dark,” Kisumi says, sitting in front of him on the train. The light outside moves across his face, contrasting, eerie.

They leave the tunnel, and again, Makoto couldn’t see himself reply. His reflection on the window disappears, with the light streaming in. The sky stretches above them, clouds rolling past.

“We'll go together, as far as we can go.”

\---------------

_'Oh, gentians are blooming. It's autumn for sure.'_

Purple paper flowers, scattered by cardboard train tracks.

_'Just you watch me hop right out of here, get some of those flowers and jump back on again.'_

_'Too late.'_ Makoto reaches for Kisumi's hand, under the armrest. Their fingers curl together. _'We've left them behind now.'_


End file.
